Woman at Convention

There is a slow woman at the metro
Who stands on the cliff of the stairs
Mouthing words with her hands.

She occassionally yields suffocating noises
From the balloon leak of her lips, constantly staring
At the floor, which she floats inaudibly above.

She hangs an arbitrary smile
On the coat-rack of her cheeks
Opening and closing her thoughts like cabinets.

I think, perhaps, the whole of humanity
Rests between her slightly out-turned ears
And her pace and manners are just subtle
Signs of being crushed.